


The Endless Game

by la_esperance



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:37:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_esperance/pseuds/la_esperance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In this world, it is one endless game for everyone involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Endless Game

**Author's Note:**

> My friend and I were discussing Neil Gaiman’s _Sandman_ series and I immediately thought that Benedict Cumberbatch might make a good Dream. From there, this fic spawned itself.

**Destiny**

If there is something that he appreciates about his position, it’s that he can keep watch over his petulant and childish younger brother without being intrusive. Well, not physically intrusive, which was all very good. He’d hate to have a repeat of their younger days when Sherlock insisted with bawls and tears that Mycroft was spying on him, instead of seeing that Mycroft was really concerned for him.

Sometimes, though, Mycroft wondered if his concern for Sherlock was wasted and why he continued to be concerned. (The last question was always finally answered with a simple _He’s my brother, of course!_ )

But time and again, Mycroft’s doubts were allayed when his “intrusions” spelled the difference between Sherlock getting scot free away from attackers and Sherlock ending up in hospital with horrible injuries. As always, Sherlock refused to thank him but the Mycroft took the zealous way Sherlock investigated each crime as thanks enough. (Though he always wondered if it ever occurred to Sherlock that they were on the same side when it came to crimes and criminals.)

It also helped particularly when it concerned Sherlock’s love life.

No. Let that be corrected. When it concerned other people’s love life in which Sherlock was involved 

It worried Mycroft how Sherlock can sometimes be so clueless about how he affected people’s emotions, especially people’s hearts. A careless smile, a pat on the back, a wink. Sometimes Mycroft wanted to strangle his brother for all the times that he had—unwittingly, Mycroft hoped—led people on. All of this eventually resulted in heart’s getting broken and Sherlock none the wiser about them.

And, of course, big brother had to clean up after little brother, especially when some sap developed a violent streak. Good thing he always had help when he needed to keep murderous exes away from Sherlock. A lot of them stopped at Mycroft’s verbal warnings but one or two had to be physically shown that Mycroft was serious (but in no way violating their rights, mind you).

Then there was Dear Doctor John Watson, invalided home from Afghanistan and wrongly diagnosed with PTSD. He and Sherlock had only met for a few minutes and now he had moved into a flat with him. How very strange. Who was the more trusting, Sherlock or John?

It piqued his interest that Sherlock should so easily let a man into close quarters with him but it impressed him more that John hadn’t run away after meeting Sherlock. Sources at the hospital (he really should send some flowers over to Molly) told him that John had seemed a little piqued after his first meeting with Sherlock. 

He opens his trusty notebook which he kept in his coat pocket and where he jotted down things and people of importance. Nevertheless—Mycroft reads from his notes—John was there at 221B Baker Street and was apparently intent on making his home there.

How marvelously interesting. This could be the making of Sherlock man, the great man into a good man…

But his brotherly instinct kicked in. The last time someone moved in with Sherlock, it had ended in a disaster. It was only the timely intervention of Mycroft that allowed Sebastian Wilkes to save face and graduate from university. So, he decides, before anything goes wrong, he’ll have a word with this doctor. 

He claps the book close and walks away, the end of his umbrella clicking against the gold veined black marble floors. 

 

**Death**

It was true that he had seen a lot of death. It was the one thing that was constant on the battlefield, yet he himself hadn’t killed a man. Injured several, yes, but never killed one. He knew that it came with his Hippocratic oath. His job as a doctor meant that he could never bring himself to kill someone.

With his knowledge in anatomy, he knew where to shoot just to give a debilitating injure. It was easy on the battlefield to go berserk when everything around you was pure chaos. But he had kept his head and he never forgot his oath. _I am a doctor. I’m supposed to save people, not kill them. Even if they are my enemies._

And he had gotten some jabs about it. The crass young soldiers used to rib him endlessly about being a chicken but the older ones clapped him on the back for being able to shoot a man at a precise point so that he could no longer use his arm while the chaos of war raged on around him. He’d say _Thanks_ in a weak voice, all the while wondering when he’ll break and actually kill a man.

But then one day, a fateful day, he got shot in the shoulder. The other medic with him immediately went about bandaging his wound, all the while muttering _You should have fired, John. You should have killed him. You should have!_ John could only stare down at his hands, his vision slightly hazy. He had his rifle in hand, ready to shoot and he had seen the enemy from afar. So why hadn’t he fired?

He felt himself being carried over to a copse of mesquite trees and there he was tended to again. It stung when they stitched his shoulder but all he could think about was why he hadn’t fired first.

Even back in London, the question still haunted him, especially when he stood in front of the mirror before and after a bath or when his shoulder ached from sleeping too much on his left side. _Why why why why why_. It was almost like a keening cry in his head.

And now here he was, faced with the same dilemma again. To shoot or not to shoot, only this time he was in a school, staring out the window into a room in the opposite building. There were two people in that room. One was an old man, probably old enough to be his father. The other one was a brilliant young man, younger than himself whom he, surprisingly, felt the need to protect even if they had only known each other for a few hours total.

Silly, really. They’d only met yesterday afternoon. But he had seen what this man was capable of and he had realized very quickly what this could mean for all the difficult and unsolved cases out there. He looked back at the two figures and saw that they were both about to swallow the pill. Quickly, he opened the window and called out the younger man’s name again to catch his attention, but to no avail. He took a deep breath and positioned his handgun.

As soon as he was certain that there was no turning back for either of them, he fired a shot and watched the bullet hit the cabbie’s chest with deadly accuracy before hiding away. 

 

**Destruction**

_Christ!_ Lestrade thought as he gingerly stepped over a pile of debris that had once been a wall. _Who the hell has connections to get enough semtex for all these puzzles?_

It was the big news over at Scotland Yard that they had found three people with explosives strapped to their body, ready to explode and take down a small building with them. There were rumors that a recent blast at an apartment was also caused by semtex, not a gas leak as was reported.

But Lestrade knew the truth. After all, he had been there when Sherlock had laid bare the bomber’s plans. And yes, _a lot_ of semtex was involved.

Which really piqued Lestrade’s curiosity and anger. Was the explosive material so readily available in whatever market there was? He couldn’t imagine a man going up to the counter in a pharmacy and ordering several pounds of it. _And who the hell thought of strapping it to innocent people?_ Must be downright psycho to think of such a thing!

And he felt a shudder run down his spine as that thought was hammered home with the sight of the blown up sports building. Almost immediately he remembered a line from a movie he’d watch with a few rugby buddies.

_Some people just want to watch the world burn_.

_And some of them take the burning literally_ , Lestrade thought, _Including explosions like it was a bloody fireworks show._

He carefully made his way through the rubble, swatting the air in front of him when motes of dust swirled there. He could still smell burning plastic and rubber and that general nauseous odor that accompanied explosions of this kind. 

So much destruction and for what?

That was the question that kept niggling in his mind. He knew the bomber was playing with—or against—Sherlock. He had figured out as much. But why? Why go through all of this? To what end? And what part did Sherlock play in it?

Two people had already died because of this and as far as the reports were coming, Lestrade knew that in this particular blast, some more had been killed. And these new deaths were strangely fully armed.

It didn’t make sense at all! 

He heaved a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was going to be nightmare to investigate and file. If he had Sherlock with him here, he’d probably feel a lot better.

Lestrade continued to make his way until he neared what used to be the pool area. According to preliminary reports, this was where the blast originated. He looked around, trying to keep a surge of emotions under control. Half of the area was completely blown off. Debris was scattered all over the place in rough piles, spilling into the pool that was now half empty.

Then he felt his gut twist in a tight acidic knot when paramedics gently pulled up the body of Sherlock and John onto the gurneys. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

He hadn’t known they had been there. Sherlock hadn’t told him…

“Lestrade…”

He turned to face a slim man whom he recognized as DI Dimmock. He said in a strained voice, “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I was nearby. I came as soon as I heard.”

Lestrade nodded but his gaze was on the gurneys that were being wheeled out towards the waiting ambulances. Dimmock turned to glance where Lestrade was looking. He turned back and patted Lestrade’s arm.

“They’re all right. I called the paramedics as soon as I got here. Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes have suffered physical injuries, but nothing to worry about. A few days in the hospital will probably be all they need.” Dimmock paused. “The medic’s words, not mine.”

Lestrade forced a smile, “Thank you, Dimmock.”

The other man shrugged, “You’ve worked with him a lot. He’s a great help.”

“Thank you. Again.” Lestrade whispered before moving towards Donovan.

Some people just want to watch the world burn but Lestrade knew that Sherlock would go after them, even if he had to burn himself. Lestrade didn’t know which thought was scarier.

 

**Dream**

Sherlock never remembers his dreams. It’s not that he doesn’t dream. No. He does dream and he is a lucid dreamer. It’s just that he finds them as irrelevant as knowing who the prime minister is. It wouldn’t matter to his work if he remembered what he dreamt the night before so any lingering traces in the morning are firmly delegated to the deepest recess in his mind. There, they are as good as deleted.

That’s not to say he doesn’t take stock of his dreams either. He does. 

Sometimes, in fits of boredom, he recalls interesting dreams, playing them out in his head in vivid colors and sounds as if he were watching a movie. When he was young, it had been his favorite movies like _The Princess Bride_ where he was Inigo Montoya or Arsene Lupin, the gentleman thief. Other times, he dreamt he was Inspector Roderick Alleyn from Ngaio Marsh’s books.

But as he grew older, his dreams became more complex, or, at least, his dream self became more complex.

It was when he started to have _certain_ kinds of dreams during his puberty that he began to catalogue them. For experimentation and documentation, he told himself then. He didn’t quite believe that dreams were the result of one’s subconscious but it helped to keep his mind spic and span.

Of course, when he became a full blown consulting detective, he had little time for dreams and so any that came his way was relegated to a forlorn corner of his mind.

But then somewhere along the way, things started to change and it was when his dreams took a more worldly turn that Sherlock started to pay attention.

At first it was just chaste kisses. But months later, that had graduated to more intimate touches. As if his subconscious wanted to torment him more, the dreams were stark clear the more intimate they were but he couldn’t remember at all who was in the dream with him afterwards. He woke up from those dreams, shuddering. Sometimes, his senses were on fire from whatever he had experienced in the dream. He had woken up to skin that burned with the merest touch or with lips that tingled as if someone had kissed him solidly.

It disconcerted him and yet it made him more curious that he allowed himself to sink into them, testing the waters.

Like tonight.

He knew he was going to dream a particular type of dream. The environment had a fuzzy quality about it as if he were looking through lens that softened just a little bit all the harsh corners and lines of the world. But even that didn’t stop John Watson’s face from standing out clearly against the muddied background.

John was leaning over, resting on his arms that were on either side of Sherlock. Before Sherlock could say anything, John lowered his hips, bringing his erection against Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock gasped and tried to wriggle away but that only provided enough friction to elicit a soft moan from John.

“John.” Sherlock said, letting his voice trail away. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Really?” was the husky reply. “Do you know what I think?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. _Where was this going? And why was he dreaming of John now?_. He had never dreamt of anyone in particular in these kinds of dreams. They had all been shadowy figures whose features were revealed only one at a time, never in totality with which to form a recognizable face. That he could see John’s face so clearly startled him and, to be honest, scared him a little.

It was not that he was an innocent. No, he was far from that. It just made things slightly awkward. Sherlock couldn’t decide if he wanted to see this dream to the end or force himself to wake up. But that choice was taken away from him when John cupped his cheek with a hand.

“John, you don’t want to do this.” He said abruptly.

John leaned closer until his breath fanned over Sherlock’s face. “You don’t know that, Sherlock. You don’t know _everything_ , least of all what I want to do right now.”

Sherlock gave him a sidelong look, “What _do_ you want to do now?”

John leaned closer again so that their lips were barely touching each other. Looking at Sherlock from under his lashes, John said, “I want you to understand.”

“What, John?” Sherlock said, now aware that John was circling his hips slowly and that his own body was responding in kind.

“That I can be more than a friend.” John whispered, thumbing the corner of Sherlock’s lips.

_I don’t have friends_ , Sherlock wanted to reply but the words died in his throat. Instead, all he could think about was the gentle way John was now kissing him. His lips tasted of honey and there were small crumbs around the corners. Oh, so the dream version of John had just finished his snack, the snack he usually ate when he was exasperated or frustrated with Sherlock. The tip of his tongue had a hint of coffee. Dream John must be very upset with Sherlock then if he drank coffee.

But all in all, this was something…nice. Well, Sherlock couldn’t think of the right word. It just felt right, all right. All so very all right. Was this what it felt like to kiss someone you liked? He supposed it was but he had nothing in his past to go on, no experience to rely on. Maybe he should start looking into this? But then again, what other purpose would the knowledge serve?

Suddenly, he’s thoughts were sidetracked when John tucked his face into the crook of his shoulder and whispered, “Sherlock, I love you.”

It was then that Sherlock woke up with a strangled cry.

He lay still, unblinking, for a few moments. His mind tried to analyze the dream, make some sense out of it but he kept on losing his train of thought. He twists and turns on the bed, rumpling the bed sheet and kicking the blanket to the floor. Still, his mind failed to make heads or tails the dream. With a huff of frustration, Sherlock got out of bed and devoted a full hour to a cold shower.

Late that morning, he wondered why he still hadn’t erased the dream traces of John’s lips on his own and why he’s even thinking about it at all. 

 

**Desire**

At first he had wanted everything that the world could offer him, but soon that became insufficient, boring. So he played. He played with the world and how exciting that was! All those people scuttling about, looking for ways out and he offered them a way out.

Brilliant, isn’t it?

And then he saw Sherlock, his beauty, his brilliance, but above all his desire to stave away boredom. Oh a kindred soul, if there was any. And so he played his games, gave Sherlock games to play with. Oh, he rather enjoyed those. Might have enjoyed himself too much.

But that only made him want Sherlock and with each game he played, each time Sherlock trumped his own brilliance, he wanted Sherlock more.

Sherlock belonged to him, his brilliance was his. If he had to name two faults of his own, he’d say that he was pretty changeable. And he absolutely hated sharing with anyone. 

But how to keep him? So many things kept Sherlock from him. Oh yes, there were his games that kept Sherlock looking for more but when the games were over, Sherlock turned to other things like that damaged doctor.

Now, that was unacceptable. He was not about to share Sherlock with anyone, least of all dear Johnny boy.

So plans were hatched and he planned a great game just to show the world exactly to whom Sherlock belonged.

He wanted Sherlock’s heart. He wanted to burn Sherlock’s heart out of him because he knew that it was the only way he could ever have him. 

 

**Despair**

You know when someone waltzes into your life and leaves you breathless and yet wanting more? That’s how it always is with me and Sherlock.

So when he tells me that he needs me, all this past acts of meanness are forgotten.

Then he tells me _why_ he needs me and a huge lump of disbelief forms in my throat. But I still do what he asks because it’s the height of unkindness to deny a dying man’s request.

The next day I do not read the papers. I know what has happened. Even if I didn’t, I don’t think I could read the news through my tears.

 

**Delirium**

The first time she saw Sherlock and John in one room, it was obvious that they were a couple. Not a couple in the common sense of the word with all its romanticized trappings and what not but still as two becoming one. And she was loathed to come between them. 

Yet he was delicious.

So she played the game with him, reveling in the rush of adrenaline and emotions it gave her. But all along, she knows that there is a price to pay for that. She just didn’t think that it would come in the form of a beheading at the hands of a terrorist cell.

To her surprise, he is there to save her. She never expected that: hearing that ring tone, hearing his exquisite voice. Later on, in a dark corner of a minivan with no windows, Irene asks where he was going after. 

Without looking up, Sherlock immediately answers, “Home.”

“To Baker Street?”

He does look up then and his eyes give a more truthful answer. _To John_.

Silence that descends between them is heavy with meaning. The only time it is interrupted is when the third person in the minivan hands her an envelope and explains the mechanics of the witness protection program she was to enter.

“Why did you save me?” She finally asks just as he was about to leave.

“Unnecessary deaths are ugly.” He replies in his characteristic curt tone, wrinkling his face as if to underscore his words.

And then he leaves, without so much as a proper goodbye. But then again, perhaps his saving her was his goodbye.

And she is left reeling.

She had long ago come to terms with the cold restlessness that accompanied the knowledge that he cared for someone else so much more than actions and words could convey. Only now could she deal with the dizzying knowledge that he—of all people!—could find space to care about her as well.


End file.
